Dawns
by PenPatronus
Summary: Short snapshots of the Ducks when they were kids.


**Author's Notes and Disclaimer:** My interpretation of what the Ducks were like when they were young enough to play peewee hockey. Snapshot flashbacks galore, fun, short and sweet. Please please review! I clap you Disney, please don't sue my poor, duck-loving pen. This story was originally published on October 11th 2003 under another penname of mine. No changes have been made to the story.

**Dawns**  
By: PenPatronus

"Look at that kid go! He's stealing the puck right out from under their beaks! I swear he's gonna grow up to be a professional thief!"

Eight-year-old Duke L'Orange's feathers blushed to their gray tips at his father's proud boastings to the peewee hockey coach.

His father left him the next day.

-------

Practice had ended an hour before, but little Tanya sat cross-legged, using the blade of her skate to make markings on the ice. An older woman, with the exact same blond hair pulled up into the exact same vertical ponytail, stood above her, studying the indents with a slight smile. Finally Tanya sighed, laced her skate back on and looked up for her mother's permission and approval.

"You've made the calculations, now test your theory."

Tanya nodded anxiously, got up, and placed a puck on the "X" she'd chiseled into the ice. With a sharp swing she hit it towards the right board on the home side and not unlike a billiard ball, the puck ricocheted off the panel, angled with a spin off the opposite wall, careened off the post of the goal and landed in the net.

Beaming from ear to ear, Tanya's mom bent to pull her daughter into a fierce hug. "I did it, mom!" Tanya's muffled voice came from somewhere against the older duck's stomach.

"Yes you did, Tanya. Always remember, if you work hard enough, you'll be able to do anything."

-------

"What a clumsy oaf! How could any duck his age be that built? All we have to do is roll him down the ice like a fat bowling ball! Ducaine knows he'll never be good for anything else."

Check Hardwing closed his eyes and tried to tune out his coach's insults. Calm down, channel your anger, and find peace. Check repeated the mantra over and over, concentrating on the scent of the frozen pond, the splintering hockey stick between his palms, imagining getting respect for his efforts.

Peace.

Check opened his eyes, looked at his abusive teacher, and grinned.

-------

"Mallory Helen McMallard!"

Mallory snapped to attention, nearly tripping over her skates and dropping her hockey stick in the process. "Yes, sir?"

A military general posed as her father sighed as he came up to his young daughter, "What in the Hell do you think you're doing?"

Mal knew better than to even her flinch in her posture, "Just practicing hockey. sir."

Chest out and shoulders back, her elder huffed impatiently, "I ordered you to work on your launcher skills. You're twelve now, you should be training to shoot pucks from a barrel, not fool around with a childish sport."

The little girl's shoulders sagged a bit, "But, dad-"

"Stop it right there, young lady, I will not allow my daughter to disgrace me anymore than she already has!" He shook his head as he pivoted to return to the base, "Can't believe I didn't have a boy."

Tears threatened the young duck's eyes but she willed them back. The bruise from the last time her father had caught her crying still ached.

"Oh, and Mallory," He had changed his mind and went to grab her precious hockey stick. In a single violent thrust, he broke the stick in half over his knee. "It's general McMallard, even to you. Never refer to me as 'dad'!"

"Yes sir."

Mallory didn't relax until her father was out of sight. Only then did she pick up the bottom half of her stick. Leaning over and taking careful aim, she swung and a second later the puck bounced off the tree she aimed at, 50 yards away.

Mallory snuck through the window of military base and hid her dismembered stick under her bed.

--------

Wildwing Flashblade was ten-years-old: old enough to play hockey, young enough to not be too embarrassed to spend time with his little brother. It was Nosedive's birthday and as usual, their dad knew what type of present to get for his son, but his wife didn't exactly appreciate her boy's tastes. For her youngest son, she bought a necklace. The silver chain was thick with a black puck at the bottom of it and "Nosedive" engraved around the rim. Nosedive hugged it, eyeing the puck with recognition.

"He needs a nametag," Wing's mom whispered to him with a wink, "In case he runs to another rink during one of your games again." His dad shrugged in sarcastic agreement.

From their father, Nosedive received his first hockey stick and the three- year-old knew exactly what to do with it, immediately forgetting the necklace his mother had placed around him. He'd grown up flicking peas off of his highchair and into Wing's open mouth with his beak. The moment he finally got a real stick in his hands that was his size, he was whacking every puck-shaped or sized object within range. Wing went into a laughing fit for a half hour when a coaster was chucked across the room and into his father's mouth. Then he was rolling on the floor when Dive hit himself in the forehead after aiming for the small puck around his own neck. Obviously Nosedive was a natural-born shooter. It seemed natural considering he was the brother of a natural-born goalie. With pillows duct-taped to his joints, Wildwing stood poised in front of the family fireplace. Their parents had made a quick run to the store, leaving Wing to baby-sit. The newly three-year-old stood a good ten feet in front of his big brother, his hockey stick instinctively wound up.

"Keep your right arm straight, Nosedive, that's it. Now, don't put your full weight into it 'cause you'll fall flat on your beak when we get you on the ice." The attentive duckling nodded, mimicking his brother's model.

"Ok, Dive, now take a nice, easy swing. Keep your eyes on the puck and be sure to-"

Shippping! "Ahh!" Sheepeek! The puck had been catapulted across the room and wisely, Wing had opted to duck instead of intercept the blast. The glass doors of the fireplace shattered! Nosedive began jumping up and down, clapping and giggling, thoroughly amused by the situation, "Wahwing ducked! Hahaha! Whing you ducked! Haha!" Wing got to his feet, slightly shaken, as his baby brother danced circles around him, tiptoeing over the glass shards.

"Dive! Look what you did! Mom and dad are gonna kill us!"

It was the last time either of them laughed for years. Their parents never came home to punish them.

-------

Canard squinted. The early morning sun was at just the right angle to reflect the rays off of the ice and into his eyes. But he loved that time of day, skating among the sparkling snowflakes and shimmering fragments of frozen water. The ice woke him up, centered his thoughts, made him forget all the school work he had to do and his mom he had to take care of. No one else was on the pond, no one to distract him and especially no goalie to come between him and the goal! He skated figure eight patterns from side to side, pivoting seamlessly. He launched pucks from one goalpost to the other, listening for the shot to be caught in the net instead of actually seeing it. He knew where the goal was, could see it from every angle on the ice even if he wasn't looking.

While the sun was directly in his eyes, Canard yanked his stick back. He didn't notice the shadow that skated directly into his puck's path. A moment after he unleashed the puck across the pond, Canard was expecting the familiar whoosh of an imploding net but what he heard was the crack of a wooden goalie stick. Frowning, Canard skated forward, shading his eyes. The puck slid between his skates as he went up to the shadow in the middle of his personal morning routine.

"Hey, this is my spot! Who the Hell are you?" Canard demanded, leaning coolly on his hockey stick.

The white-feathered male standing in between the goalposts took a rinky-dink mask off his beak and tucked it under his arm. He leaned on his own stick, staring back at the shorter, brown-feathered duck. "Don't see a name on the ice."

Canard's eyes narrowed as he glared the newcomer up and down. The moment was tense, but neither duck backed down. The goalie just stared passively back, the sun slowly rising behind him. Finally, Canard broke into a smile, deciding he could at least respect someone who had the guts to challenge him in a staring contest, even if he did block his shot rather rudely. With a sigh, he stuck out his hand.

"The name's Canard, Canard Thunderbeak. I'm captain of this district's hockey team."

The goalie lifted his chin, "Wildwing Flashblade, ex-captain, just got moved here yesterday." They shook briefly.

Canard raised an eyebrow, "Then I guess I'll be seeing you at try- outs tonight?" It suddenly occurred to Canard that his new acquaintance was staring at the black mark across his beak. Subconsciously, the captain wiped at it but shrugged the thought off. Wildwing nodded, relaxing,

"Yeah, guess I'll be there."

"You know," Canard continued, taking in Wing's athletic appearance, "I usually practice alone in the mornings. But I bet it wouldn't hurt to work with a goalie while I'm at it."

Wildwing finally permitted a ghost of a smile, "I usually practice at dawn too, woke up kinda late this morning. Not that I knew where to find a pond."

The two boys walked to school together, hockey gear hoisted over their shoulders, Canard supplying commentary as he gave Wing the tour. But when he was struggling to start casual conversation, Canard pointed at something around his new friend's neck, "I thought you said your name was Wildwing."

Wing fingered the puck shaped necklace dangling across his chest and set his beak. "Nosedive was-is my little brother's name."

Canard hesitated, not turning to look at Wing's facial expression, "Was?"

"They separated us."

"They?"

Wildwing silenced the dialogue with a single look but the two boys continued to class in an oddly comfortable silence.


End file.
